Irony was the one word which seemed to fit her life best anymore.
It was with great irony that she was known across stars, and yet walked anonymously through bustling streets. Lauded, applauded, or feared, yet not a one could have picked her out from a line up.
It was with great irony that she became the savior of Ishgard in their Dragonsong War, despite parading about as an Au Ra at the time. The whispers had been cutting until the great wyrm was felled. It had been they who had fed Fray within her soul and mind. Sidurgu’s eventual companionship was more than welcome in those troubled times.
It was with great irony that the first soul to truly seem to understand her, to intrigue her, was one who she should have felled immediately.
But perhaps it was the greatest irony of all that her current face was a copy of said man’s previous wife and empress. How fitting it was, in a way, that she should finally don Garlean skin as she staggers towards the nation’s founder. How fitting it was that he must stare into the eyes of the woman he once swore he loved as she crumpled before him, choking and gurgling up incandescent light. How fitting an end for Eorzea’s renowned hero, for Norvrandt’s last hope.